Free A Vengeful Longing by R. N. Morris

protestations, and over-groomed moustache, only served to strengthen the police officer’s resolve that his decision, taken admittedly without consultation, was nevertheless the right one.
     
    Lieutenant Salytov shifted uneasily as he heard the lock turn. The flimsy pamphlets in his hands were damp with sweat. The door to the interview room creaked open. Porfiry Petrovich came out, quickly followed by Virginsky, on whose face Salytov detected a mocking leer. Salytov felt his teeth clench with rage. Really, it was too much to bear. The last time he had seen that insolent puppy, he had been the suspect in a murder investigation. Outraged, Salytov searched Porfiry Petrovich’s face. The magistrate’s expression was pained. He avoided Salytov’s eye.
     
    The politseisky who had let them out locked the door behind them.
     
    ‘Release him,’ drawled Porfiry Petrovich wearily.
     
    Salytov bristled. ‘Are you serious?’
     
    ‘We have no grounds on which to hold him. Indeed, I am puzzled as to why you arrested him in the first place, Ilya Petrovich.’
     
    ‘He had no passport.’
     
    ‘He says that it is at his lodgings. Did you send anyone round to look for it?’
     
    ‘Yes.’
     
    ‘And?’
     
    ‘We found it.’
     
    ‘And is it in order?’
     
    ‘Yes. However, we also found these.’ Salytov handed Porfiry Petrovich the pamphlets, crudely printed on thin, almost transparent, paper. Porfiry glanced at them with indifference, before passing them on to Virginsky. ‘You cannot ignore these,’ insisted Salytov hotly.
     
    ‘Such pamphlets are widely circulated, I believe,’ said Porfiry Petrovich. ‘Is that not so, Pavel Pavlovich?’
     
    Virginsky didn’t answer.
     
    ‘They are subversive. They express opinions critical of our government. Possession of such material is an offence,’ insisted Salytov.
     
    ‘Then we will confiscate them.’ Porfiry made a sweeping gesture with one hand.
     
    ‘That is no solution. The fact is, the boy is an insurrectionist.’
     
    ‘The boy,’ countered Porfiry Petrovich impatiently, ‘is a boy.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I grant you, we could come down heavily on him, Ilya Petrovich. We could even turn him over to the Third Section. We could grind him under the heel of our boot, so to speak, as a blind man tramples a flower.’
     
    ‘He is no flower.’
     
    Porfiry opened his eyes to look at Salytov. ‘In all respects, he is more than a flower. He is a youth. A Russian youth. Our youth. He is as yet unformed. If we respond to him with brutality, we may very well turn him into an enemy of the state. If we show him tolerance and understanding - forgiveness, even, of his youthful folly - is it not then more likely that he will grow up to respect rather than hate the rule of law?’
     
    ‘The rule of law is not ours to bend as the whim takes us.’
     
    ‘Not as whim, but as wisdom dictates. It is my job to decide if there is sufficient evidence to warrant a prosecution. I have decided that there is not. However, in the light of the new evidence that you have just now presented, you have my authority to issue him with a stern warning, so that he understands both our leniency in this instance and our determination to prosecute should he ever again be found in possession of such material. And then you may release him.’
     
    ‘Are you not interested in finding out how he came by the pamphlets? ’
     
    ‘I have a murder case to investigate. As the proverb goes, if you run after two hares, you will catch neither. Good day, Ilya Petrovich.’
     
    Porfiry Petrovich half-bowed and moved away, followed by Virginsky, still clutching the pamphlets. Salytov watched them go then nodded for the door to be opened.
     

6
     
    One Bezmygin, a musician
     
    Shestaya Street, where Meyer was being held, was on the Peterburgsky side, off Bolshoi Prospekt: across the wide Neva and into a different St Petersburg, one built more of wood than stone. The buildings were lower,